


prayers made of mosaic.

by castcommune



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Terminal Illness, hospital angst, this is sad y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 14:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21459490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castcommune/pseuds/castcommune
Summary: He wants to say, if the world is going to sing me its gospel, it's gotta be believable. // this is a sort of fjord character study.
Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Fjord
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	prayers made of mosaic.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! I wrote this in a haze while listening to carrie rudzinski's "barefoot whale riders" album. hope you enjoy! x

He says, _ this is not how things end, this is just the beginning of a new chapter,  _ and Fjord isn't quite sure how to process these words like betrayal, these confessions muttered softly against white hospital walls and machines beeping menacingly into the silence. He looks down to their hands, palms pressed against the other's like two breezes unsure of where to go next; their fingers, vines tracing mirror image as if unbelieving of their existence, and Fjord thinks that maybe everything isn't made of faith-stained glass and prayers made of mosaic. Maybe lifelines made of spoken pleas weren't sturdy enough to hold two people at once; maybe this man dying in front of him, breath labored and skin paler than it should ever be, maybe this isn't how things were meant to go. Maybe his lover's goddess who prides herself on kindness isn't as sunshine-happiness as she tries to be; maybe his lover, desperate to find serenity, dressed death in white linen and called her Heaven. Maybe, death isn't always a happy ending.

He says, _ don't think of this as dying, think of this as being reborn, _ and Fjord thinks that maybe love is just repetition, like a record scratching itself on the precipice of a new refrain. The face in front of him, worn and tired and struggling to keep bright eyes open, looks to him like he's hung the stars, and Fjord wants to defend himself, wants to claim that the stars were hung by the gods for a reason: if a lover is to die, then the widowed would need a solid place to hang from. You see, he never thought love meant anything more than a body next to a body, a heartbeat escalating as tone of voice shifts, an act of self-pity portrayed in movements made of tension. He never meant to fall in love with this maker of fine graves, this gentleness masquerading as a man who knew not of the ways of the world, but of the ways of the heart. Here, in this hospital room swallowed by the steady  _ beep, beep --- beep --- --- beep, _ of these machines taunting them both with chance, Fjord wants to believe that they fell in love for a reason, that maybe faith isn't just a noose made of velvet. The fates have had their way with him, he thinks; what more do they hunger for? Must more loss be supplied to a world that has devoured enough? 

He says,  _ I can tell you're upset, you know _ , and Fjord hates these words more than anything, more than the doctors who tell him his lover doesn't have much time left, more than the friends who keep asking him if he's alright. Eyes trail downward, fixated on their hands, stark contrast of strength, and he wants more than anything to tell his lover that it is alright. He wants to have the courage to lie, in the face of adversity; why, he wonders, must this trait be so long-since forgotten? Why, pray tell, does his breath hitch somewhere deep in his throat at the mere concept of looking now at this sick, this dying, this lover he has given all he's ever had to? Gently, and without much thought, he reaches for his lover's chest, carefully avoiding wires and cords, avoiding distant memory of friends telling him to find space, of doctors awkwardly warning him to begin to grieve. The gods would not want him to mourn for the living; his lover, with pink hair tossed gently past his shoulders, eyes closed, breath calm --- his lover is here, and he is alive. Fjord touches bare skin; cold, rising with effort, but still the home of the heart he has grown to so deeply admire.

He says, voice hoarse,  _ what are you doing? _ , and Fjord can hear the smile on his lips, can hear the rise of inflection trailing off into nothingness, and he splays his fingers against the surface of his solace. It isn't much, just skin pressed against skin, and he can still hear the  _ beep, beep --- beep --- --- beep --- --- beep, _ of the machines at their side, echoing their droning melody against reluctant eardrums. He wants to say, if the world is going to sing me its gospel, it's gotta be believable; he imagines his lover with candles lit around him, with incense streaming its narrow cry up towards the clouds, and he thinks that maybe love is just muscle memory, an image after an image. He feels his lover's chest rise --- up, then down, up, then --- slowly, it goes down. He hears a moan from the bed, a strained sort of sound that only the dying expel, and it takes all of the willpower he has to trail his eyes upward. 

He says,  _ it's almost time _ , and Fjord wants to disagree, thought flickering to friends crying in the hallway, family he's never even met before swarming a funeral home his lover would have detested. The future, like a dissonant war cry, screams behind his eyes, and his gaze settles on a face that reads of peace, a face that has seen the other-side, and has chosen it over this; how jealous Fjord is in this moment, to know that his lover will be happy soon, to know that this man who has suffered for so long will soon be free of pain, free of sorrow, of guilt. How terrible this is, he thinks, to envy a man dying in front of him; to carry this loss, to keep his lover in his heart, will be the hardest of tasks, but stubbornness like a bull has always been his one and only shining trait. He thinks back to the arguments, to the laughter, to the evenings spent crying in the confines of their home; their little Heaven, their peaceful meadow amidst this endless array of warfare. 

He says, voice like sandpaper whispers and "I told you so's" wrapped in silk, _ don't let go _ , and Fjord can feel the pain well up in his chest, can hear the desperation in his lover's final plea. Palm presses gently into bare skin, fingers splayed like steel in an accident; they both are the casualties, bodies contorted in this final waltz, this death's march of seconds like centuries, and he can feel each breath like a millisecond of heart stopped, brain gone, love lost. He can hear each intake of air, laborious and strained and a final prayer for forgiveness; he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but makes no effort to dissuade them. His lover would want him to feel each emotion as it arrives; to welcome it, arms open wide, and say  _ yes, you are free to stay here as long as you would like.  _

The machines, with their determined interjections, with their  _ beep --- beep --- --- beep --- --- --- _ , become a long, desperate thing that screeches into the room like a siren, mutes itself against the new stillness of the room. His palm remains against his lover's chest; not pressing, not pushing, just touching, skin against skin. For a moment, he almost thinks he feels a warm palm press over his own; for a moment, he thinks he smells incense. 


End file.
